Kal Easton
Sep 7, 2018 · 7 min read

“Kaili and Abby before Junior Prom” by Kal Easton

Releasing Toxicity and Learning to Love

If you asked me four years ago how I defined love, I would have told you that love is stressful, overwhelming, evil, hopeless, or better in my own words — “good, I guess.” If you were to ask me my definition of love today, I would tell you that love is beautiful, empowering, kind, and worthwhile.

I found myself in an emotionally abusive relationship during my sophomore year of high school. I want to say that I didn’t know any better, but at the time I thought that I deserved the way I was treated because that’s what he told me.

We all wanted that “Instagram perfect” relationship and 16 year-old-me would have done anything to get that. He wasn’t the hottest guy in school, but there was something about his thick curly hair and his deep brown eyes. He was sweet and charming and had a great sense of humor. We started out as friends and ate lunch together every day. He spent months convincing me that he was this great, caring guy, then removed his disguise as soon as I said yes to being something more.

On my own, my head was not in a good place. I battled with self-confidence, eating disorders, depression, horrifically judgmental parents and a slew of other demons. While I was with this guy who I thought made me complete, matters only worsened. I was “loved” for my body, and the intimacy we shared was only to his benefit. He forced me into things that I did not want, sexual and situational. I was lied to, cheated on and simply put — used. I thought it was love and he convinced that he was the only one for me, the only one who could handle me and my mental illnesses. I thought we would get married someday, and what a nightmare that would have been. Over and over I told myself that every relationship had flaws and that things would get better.

But they didn’t.

One day I found a yellow smiley face thong in his room, size extra-small. He said it was his sisters, but I did his laundry and sometimes hers got mixed in. She wore a large. I accused him of the obvious, then sat on the end of his bed sobbing while he said it was all my fault. He told me that he would change if I did better for him. If I did this or that, lost more weight and wore more make up, he would be a better boyfriend. Then he told me that he loved me.

I believed him, so I adhered to his requests.

After that day our fights grew more frequent. My outfits were too revealing or not revealing enough. I didn’t please him right. I wore my hair the wrong way. I laughed the wrong way and ate the wrong things for lunch.

On the day we had been together for six months, I lost control of myself. While we were arguing after school, the daily ritual before I drove him home, I hurled my iPhone across the school parking lot and screamed at the top of my lungs. One long, ear piercing belch. My body was boiling, and I couldn’t breathe. I was a heap of clothes and sweat and tears, wishing I could melt into the concrete I was now sitting on, rocking back and forth. He told me to get myself together, get in the car, and take him home.

That afternoon I sat parked in his driveway, blinded by my tears and unable to breathe through my gasps and hiccups. An hour passed before I was finally able to compose myself enough for the five-minute drive home, where I slept for two days.

He broke up with me because I became “unmanageable” and he couldn’t do it anymore. I was ruined. He played me like he played Halo, then dumped me like his old Xbox. At his front door he tried to hug me as I left. I punched and smack his chest and kicked my feet until he retreated into his home.

I thought him telling me what to wear was love. I thought him telling me what to say was love. I thought him telling me what to believe or who I could talk to was love. I thought him omitting his activities and any insight to his personal life was love. He was saving me from something that I wouldn’t want to know anyway.

I had grown weary, untrusting that romance still existed. My heart tried with all its might to convince me that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. She tried to convince me that love was not supposed to hurt that bad or cause endless nights of emotional turmoil spent utterly alone. But I didn’t listen.

So, I spent the next year and a half, as any good writer says, finding myself. I became an outsider. I was hesitant to make friends or meet new people. I watched everyone else in their relationships, examined their mannerisms both apart and when they were together. I critiqued everything from the tone of their voice to their posture and slowly taught myself signs of happy relationships and signs of those who were struggling. I started listening to what my heart was trying to tell me.

My definition of love grew with these observations, and although I began to think that love was possible and maybe even worth my time, I lacked the confidence in myself to go out and get what I wanted. I was still destroyed by the notion that nobody else would ever love me, not even those in my own home. I felt completely alone, comforted only by the nights spent scarring my skin.

During my time spent quietly observing, a budding friendship with a girl in sixth period marine biology grew into something more right under my nose. We first became friends because she needed a ride home from school, but we became inseparable shortly after the first ride I gave her. We were the type of friends who said we loved each other and were clingy and snuggly. That year, we went to prom together as “just friends.” She wore a navy-blue dress that brought out her ocean blue eyes. Her sunset colored hair was pinned up rather than her usual worn down, stretching to her bottom and coming to a slight curl at the ends. We were both out of our comfort zone of jeans and a pair of vans. Maybe it was the mood, the setting, or the buzz of smoking a couple of bowls, but something clicked in me and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. I didn’t just love her as a friend — I was in love with her. The realization hit me like a train, and it took me four months and a bottle of gin to admit it to her.

This seed of friendship has grown into a sunflower that today stands taller than any mental walls I have built. We have been together for over two years now and with her, I discovered ways to love myself on a level that I never even thought existed. She showed me love in ways I thought were only in the movies. Our love is easy; it just happens.

We kept our relationship a secret for about five months. I grew more personally in this time than I had my whole life. There was a lot of pressure from my parents and the people who surrounded me to conform to heteronormative ideals. I grew to have the courage to break free from this mold, come out to my parents and be proud of who I was.

I know that she loves me. It’s in the way she says my name, her kind actions and her kind heart. She understands me in a way that no one else does. She is open and honest and easy to talk to. She is wise and gives the best advice. I don’t know how she does it, but somehow, she manages to see the best in every single situation, no matter how bleak. She encourages me to dress and act and believe in what I want and to screw what everyone else thinks. She has shown me courage, understanding, and trust, three things that I had lost my faith in.

With her help and with four years of healing and growing, my definition of love is where I believe that it’s supposed to be.

Love is kind, fun, empowering, and ever-growing. It is not exhausting, and it does not hurt. Love is encouraging, reassuring, and builds confidence not only in the individuals but in the relationship they share.

Now don’t get me wrong, I still struggle with my demons every day, but I know that my feelings are valid, and I have someone who will always help me, just as I will always help her. She makes me feel like I’m on top of the world.

So, here’s my advice to you: Find someone who makes your heart fly, don’t settle for simple flutters.

Literally Two

Writing for a Mass Audience

Kal Easton

Written by

Literally Two

Writing for a Mass Audience

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